


Apocalypse, Now and Then

by RevDorothyL



Series: Not-So-Blithe Spirits [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: Episode: s05e22 Not Fade Away, Multi, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevDorothyL/pseuds/RevDorothyL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel and Company receive unexpected reinforcements at the end of "Not Fade Away," accompanied by some disturbing revelations.  Sequel to "Even Archangels Get the Blues."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Send a Message

**Author's Note:**

> **Thanks and Caveats:** Inspired by a suggestion from _amusewithaview_ , this story applies some of the theological assumptions of the last three seasons of _Xena_ (as well as in the fifth season _Hercules_ episode "Revelations") to the Buffyverse. 
> 
> I had to go a little more AU from the _Xena_ canon on this one, so ardent Xenites are asked to repress all memory of the episodes dealing with modern-era incarnations of the characters (from "The Xena Scrolls" to "Soul Possession," as well as the two 'Hercules-is-apparently-immortal-and-masquerading-as-actor-Kevin-Sorbo' episodes of H:TLJ), and pretend that the 6th season X:WP episodes "You Are There" and "Path of Vengeance" never existed. 
> 
> In other words, in this version of the mythology we’ll assume that Xena never fought Odin for the golden apples and Aphrodite and Ares remained mortal, with no noticeable diminution of the quantity of either love or war in the mortal world. (Just go with it, okay?)
> 
> Thanks to the nth degree are owed to my wonderful betas, _missmurchison_ and _keswindhover_
> 
>  **Fiscal Disclaimer:** I do not own _Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Xena: Warrior Princess_ , or _Hercules: the Legendary Journeys_ , and I make no money from playing in their sandboxes. 
> 
> **Faith Disclaimer:** The theological views presented in this story are not necessarily those of the author, Joss Whedon, Rob Tapert, or any other person in the real world. No actual deities or dogmas were harmed during the production of this fanfic.

### Chapter One: "To Send a Message"

> _**All hell broke loose.**  
>  John Milton, Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 918._

**Somewhere in Eternity, in a conventional representation of heaven . . .**

The entity known as the Archangel Raphael stood at the edge of a precipice and looked down upon the mortal world. The swarthy, sturdily built warrior angel was focusing a significant portion of his vast attention on the city of Los Angeles, which seemed to be on the verge of literally going to hell. Even more than usual.

On a plain behind Raphael stood rank upon rank of his fellow warrior angels, both male and female in appearance, arrayed for battle. They had each adopted their most 'old-school' form and garb in honor of the occasion, allowing their greenish-black feathered wings to fully manifest and attiring themselves in crimson kilts and gleaming armor, with swords drawn. Gone were the biker leathers, jeans, fatigues, and yellow track-suits (in honor of Bruce Lee) that many of them had affected over the past half-century. This was no time to try to blend in, or work incognito.

It had been several millennia since the hosts of heaven had last faced the prospect of open warfare on the mortal plane, and their excitement was palpable.

The Archangel Michael suddenly became visible on the precipice beside Raphael, his own wings fully extended and his silver breastplate dazzlingly bright. Michael's stern, beak-nosed face was lightened by the hint of a smile as he nodded to his brother archangel.

"The word's been given," he told Raphael. "At the first hint of a breakthrough from the other side in force, we're cleared to go. All we need is for our earthly champions to provoke an over-reaction, annoy the enemy into crossing the line."

Raphael's somber face was transformed by a smile of his own. "I was reluctant to admit this for the first couple of centuries, but it looks like the Boss picked the right champion for the job, after all. I've never known a soul with a greater talent for being annoying."

"Well, his first incarnation did give him centuries to perfect the art of picking a fight, after all." Michael grinned with what -- in anyone other than a holy archangel -- would've been termed 'unholy glee.' "I imagine the Wolf, Ram, and Hart are discovering that unexpected side of the prophecy right about now. How fortunate for our side that they're such slow learners . . ."

* * *

  
**Meanwhile, in an alley north of the Hyperion Hotel in Los Angeles . . .**

The ensouled vampire known as Angel could feel the unearthly heat and smell the unmistakable stench of a massive influx of the armies of hell into his reality.

He'd paid a high price to stand in that alley, facing an impossible battle. Fred, Drogyn, Wesley . . . one way or another, directly or indirectly, their deaths were his responsibility, adding to the tally of debts he could never repay, wrongs he could never atone for. In a very few minutes, Gunn would almost certainly join them, as would Spike (though even in this moment of truth, he'd never admit to feeling regret at the thought of losing Spike). Even Illyria was unlikely to survive this night. And Lorne . . . ? Well, Lorne was lost from the moment he'd assigned the soft-hearted demon the job of executing Lindsey. Angel had seen something finally break in Lorne as he'd said those words.

His own death was a certainty. He had accepted that from the moment he'd decided to take down the Circle of the Black Thorn. He'd given up everything that had mattered to him -- signed away his hope of earning back his humanity from the Shanshu prophecy, done despicable things, compromised himself on nearly every level -- all in order to make this one, uncompromising statement in the name of humanity. To spit in the eye of the Senior Partners and their allies, and assert that the human spirit in this world was not yet ready to roll over and play dead for Evil.

Now, in this moment, he was morally certain of only two things: his soul would be paying for his sins in hell before the night was over, and his son Connor would be all right. He could live with that . . . for however many minutes he had left in this existence.

Watching the approach of that nightmare army, Angel smiled a little as he responded to Spike's request for a battle plan: "Well, personally, I kinda want to slay the dragon. Let's go to work . . . ."

* * *

  
**Back in heaven, a few moments ago . . .**

Michael turned to inspect the assembled ranks of his army and nodded his approval to Raphael, his second in command.

"Ah!" said Raphael, drawing Michael's attention back to the events unfolding below them. "I think it's almost time."

A brief shimmer of golden light on the edge of the precipice beside the two archangels was their only warning, before the figure of a beautiful woman appeared, with short brown hair, clad in casual slacks and a cardigan. "I think it's long past time for you guys to GET THE LEAD OUT!" the newcomer announced, sounding exasperated.

"Cordelia, this is no longer your concern," Michael reproved her. "Supernatural warfare is our work, not yours."

"Yeah, Mikey, but we both know that what makes this _heaven_ is the total lack of bureaucracy," she said condescendingly. "Turf wars are SO beneath us! Now, do you want to stand here and argue about nonexistent interdepartmental politics with me, or get down there and kick some evil ass?" As if to make the decision for him, the being most recently known as Cordelia Chase shimmered out of sight.

Michael and Raphael traded long-suffering looks. "I think she was less trouble when she was blonde and wearing those gauzy pink draperies," Raphael observed, apparently at random.

“I CAN STILL HEAR YOU!” But Cordelia didn’t bother to manifest visibly this time.

Michael merely shrugged and grinned at Raphael, before drawing his sword in the signal for the angelic army to launch their assault.

 

* * *

**Back in the alley . . .**

Angel raised his sword to meet the first charge of the hellish army, bracing himself for the impact. To his right, Spike was similarly positioned, with Gunn -- gut-wounded, but still game -- and his favorite battle-axe just behind. Illyria carried no weapons, but she seemed eager to rip apart their opponents with her bare hands.

However, in the final moment before the demon horde closed the last twenty feet to their battle line, reality seemed to shift and bulge at the seams. Any supernatural creature worth his salt (or his daily blood) could tell that a bubble of some different reality now surrounded their alley, extending perhaps a few city blocks beyond on all sides. Somebody, somewhere, was trying to contain this battlefield, keep it from spilling over into the rest of the city. ‘Fine,’ Angel thought with a mental shrug. ‘We weren’t planning on going anywhere else tonight, anyway.’

In the next instant, brief flashes of light -- blindingly bright in the dark alley -- blinked into existence in the open space before Angel's group and in the air and sky above them. A line of men and women in ancient warrior garb and sporting honest-to-god _wings_ appeared on the pavement in front of them, facing the oncoming demon army. The skies above them suddenly seemed crowded with hovering ranks of more winged warriors, brandishing swords and bows.

A final figure appeared, a split second after the others, hovering about a foot above the pavement immediately in front of Angel. Unlike the others, whose attention seemed firmly focused on the enemy, the last winged figure was facing the survivors of Angel's team.

The stranger's blue-green eyes seemed to be alight with inner laughter, though his stern face was unsmiling as he said, "Hello again, Angel. Mind if we crash your party?"


	2. Waste Not, Want Not

> _**Till old experience do attain  
>  To something like prophetic strain.**  
>  John Milton, Il Penseroso, line 173_

**Still in the alley, somewhere in time and space . . .**

“Hello again, Angel. Mind if we crash your party?”

Without waiting for an answer, the newcomer whirled in mid-air and rose ten feet straight up, so that all the winged men and women could see him as he shouted, “NOW!”

The oncoming army of demons, the front ranks of whom had hesitated briefly at the sudden appearance of winged reinforcements, raced forward once more with a wordless roar, bringing their own weapons and armor to meet the swinging swords and flying arrows. 

Spike had gone from looking dumbfounded to annoyed to gleeful in the two seconds since their odds of surviving this fight had undergone a profound change, and now Angel saw that he was back to looking annoyed again, as the blond vampire finished off his first demonic opponent and looked in vain for a second enemy within arm’s reach who wasn’t already ‘taken’ by one of their allies. 

Having done some quick calculations of his own and determined that the odds of persuading Illyria to retire from the field were nonexistent, Angel grabbed Spike’s arm as he was preparing to leap over several winged fighters to reach the new front line of the battle. “Spike!” he shouted over the noise of battle. “Spike, get Gunn out of this! He might have a chance, now. Don’t let him die here needlessly, if you can help it!”

Spike automatically shook off Angel’s grip before registering what he had said. Spike stared in mingled amazement and resentment at the older vampire. Angel could see various emphatic and colorful ways of telling him to go to hell forming on the blond vampire’s lips, but in the end all he said was, “Can’t Blue take care of Charlie?”

Angel shook his head, and then pointed to where Illyria was wading into a phalanx of oversized demons of a type he’d never seen before. She was already covered with several shades of blood, none of which appeared to be hers. Spike’s shoulders sagged slightly as he acknowledged, “Right, no Florence-Nightingalery from her anytime soon.” 

Spike cast one more wistful look at the thick of the battle, before he turned to push his way to the side of the alley. Gunn was propping himself up against a wall there, in order to have enough strength to lift his axe and deflect the descending fist of an even-larger-than-usual Fyarl demon. Spike grabbed the Fyarl’s other arm before it could follow up with a right cross that would snap the former vampire hunter’s neck and used both hands and all his strength to twist it up behind the demon’s back, while shouting at Gunn to “Go for his knees!” 

Spike was reaching above his own head as it was, in order to keep the huge Fyarl’s arm at the proper angle to incapacitate him, and there was no way that he could keep that leverage up one-handed. They needed to take the Fyarl down NOW, or it was going to wriggle out of Spike’s grasp and finish Gunn off before Spike could recover the sword he’d dropped when he leapt on the demon’s arm. 

Gunn might have been too light-headed from loss of blood to avoid taking on a nine-foot Fyarl in the first place, but he was aware enough to follow Spike’s instructions and swing his axe at the back of the demon’s left knee, partially severing some tendons. Gunn couldn’t put much muscle into it at that point, but it was enough to bring the Fyarl stumbling to his knees, grunting in pain, with Spike still keeping his right arm locked to his back. At that height, Spike dared to take one hand off the Fyarl’s forearm for a moment, in order to grab Gunn’s axe with a muttered, “Sorry, Charlie; I’ll give it back in a sec.” Releasing the demon, Spike took a two-handed grip on the axe and swung it with all his strength at the Fyarl’s neck, almost completely severing the head from its body. 

The demon corpse fell over, the head hanging on only by a bit of hide and tendon, and Spike turned to restore the axe to Gunn. However, Gunn wasn’t looking much better than the Fyarl, at that point. That last swing of the axe to cut the Fyarl down to Spike’s size seemed to have taken what remained of his fighting spirit, and he was sitting now, still with his back against the alley wall, holding the wound in his side, from which the blood was continuing to flow. 

Gunn was going to bleed out very soon, if he didn’t get some kind of treatment. Spike’s vampire senses told him that much, between the smell of human blood all over the alley and the sound of Gunn’s heartbeat racing to try to make up for the blood loss. 

The newest member of the ‘vampire-with-a-soul club’ silently cursed his own helplessness and ignorance. He’d never had much use for first aid himself, what with the vampire healing and all, and his experience with human blood loss was mostly geared toward causing it, not stopping it.

Still . . . he wasn’t completely without knowledge or resources. Spike turned a speculative glance on the newly slain Fyarl, and especially at the partially severed head. Using Charles’ axe to finish the decapitation, Spike carefully picked up the demon’s head and brought it over to where Gunn was now almost lying on the alley floor. 

“I know this is disgusting, Charlie-boy, but ‘waste not, want not’, as me mum used to say.” Spike gently moved Gunn’s hand aside, until he could see the open wound in its entirety. Holding the Fyarl’s lifeless head directly over the wound by one tufted ear, he used his other hand to grab the bridge of the demon’s nose and squeeze with all his might. The mucus in the demon’s nasal passages, which had not yet had time to harden in response to the cessation of blood flow, poured out in a brief gush, just covering the wound and about an inch of surrounding skin. Spike squeezed again, but that appeared to be all the demon had left in him at that point. He just hoped it would be enough. The demon mucus hardened within moments of coming into contact with the air, and formed a sickly-green, cement-like seal over the hole in Gunn’s side. 

Spike tossed the demon head carelessly over his shoulder and bent down to examine his handiwork. With all the blood already soaking Gunn’s clothes, he couldn’t tell by scent if the blood loss had been stopped, but at least he couldn’t see any more blood seeping out around the edges of his makeshift bandage, and the sound of Gunn’s heartbeat was starting to level off.

“Well, Charlie,” he said to Gunn, who seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, “we’ll still need to get you to a doctor right quick, but I think you’ll keep for a while, now. What should we call that, eh? I can’t think of anything clever to do with the word mucus, so I’m leaning toward ‘sticking plaster of snot’ myself. Care to weigh in on this?” 

Gunn’s eyes flickered slightly, and he mumbled something that sounded like the words “payback”, “booger band-aid,” and “you jackass,” so Spike was satisfied that Gunn was still with him, mostly. Good enough.

Spike stood and took one final look at the battle that raged around them, noting that the fiercest fighting seemed to have moved toward the other end of the alley, and that Angel -- the selfish ponce! -- was in the thick of it, swinging his sword at the now-grounded dragon with obvious enthusiasm, side by side with the big poof in the red skirt who seemed to be in command of the party-crashers. Illyria was nowhere to be seen for the moment, but Spike was sure her need for more violence was being amply met, wherever she was. 

“No more fun for Spike tonight,” he sighed, as he bent down to carefully pick up the semi-conscious Gunn and carry him to the nearest doorway leading off the alley. He kicked open the locked door and entered the storeroom beyond, looking for a clean, quiet place to let the man rest until the battle was over and they might be able to get to the hospital unimpeded . . . assuming that the good guys won, of course. 

At least the cement ‘snot’ bandage was still holding. Maybe he should try to patent it? 

Outside, the sounds of battle receded still further.


	3. War . . . What is it Good For?

> _**Long is the way  
>  And hard, that out of hell leads up to light.**  
>  John Milton, Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 432._

**Several hours later . . .**

Angel surveyed the battlefield that had once been a city alleyway in the middle of a block of deserted commercial buildings, basically indistinguishable from hundreds of other alleys in the city. Now, it was quite . . . distinctive. 

There were corpses of dozens of different demonic varieties lying in piles all around him, in addition to one honking huge dragon carcass that was completely blocking a nearby street. The remains of several fires caused by the dragon or by the weapons of some of the demon horde were smoking sullenly. Here and there, groups of the winged reinforcements seemed to be tending to their wounded comrades or checking for any still living among the fallen demons. 

There were no winged corpses – apart from the dragon, that is. Angel had seen several of the 'party-crashers' mortally wounded during the fight, and each time they seemed to wink out of this reality at the moment of death, in much the same manner as they’d first appeared. Angel was too tired to try to figure out if they were really dead or not, and – frankly -- much too tired to care.

All Angel _could_ think about or care about at that point was finding out what had happened to his own people during the battle. After that, perhaps, he might be able to summon the energy to ask who the . . . _heck_ (somehow, he didn’t care to even think the word ‘hell’ at the moment, having been through enough of it for one night) these reinforcements were, and why he’d been experiencing a major case of déjà vu whenever he wasn’t too busy fighting for his un-life.

The leader of the winged group was approaching him now, and Angel thought this might be a chance to get both of his most pressing questions answered: were the others all right, and if they were okay, then why? Why hadn’t they all died hours ago, as they’d fully expected to? Not that he was disappointed about that . . . really.

Angel stepped into the taller man’s path, just in case the other had thought to pass on by, and tried to put on his most implacable human face, the one that usually made an impression and told people not to mess with him. Of course, it had never really worked on Spike . . . or Harmony . . . or Cordelia . . . or Buffy . . . or apparently anyone who knew him, for that matter. 

However, it served at least to get the winged commander’s attention, even if the expression of tolerant amusement on the other’s face wasn’t quite the effect Angel had hoped for. “Alright,” the vampire said, hoping to seize the initiative, “how about you tell me who you are and what the…heck happened here? And keep the answers short and simple, ‘cause it’s been a REALLY long day and an even longer night.”

The other smiled. “I’m called Michael, and we _have_ met before.”

Angel frowned. “Yeah, it sort of feels that way, but I think I’d remember meeting an archangel – I assume you really are THAT Michael? Please tell me this isn’t another repressed Angelus memory, ‘cause that’s never a good thing.”

Michael’s smile broadened, as he replied, “No, our previous meetings go much further back than your days as Angelus." The archangel gestured with his sword-free hand to draw Angel's attention to their bizarre surroundings. "Since this alley and the surrounding area are temporarily sharing aspects of the reality we come from, you should be able to remember our history now, if you concentrate.”

Some part of Angel knew that there were other matters he’d intended to focus on, but it felt as though the archangel’s suggestion acted almost as a command, causing him to close his eyes to the world around him and concentrate on the distant past. His conscious mind seemed to be on a sled -- or something slippery like that -- at the top of a long hill, down which it sped at an ever increasing rate. Amid all the images that rushed past his mind’s eye too quickly to register, several pictures stuck out and seemed to stand still for a moment, long enough for him to take a good look at them. 

He saw Michael, looking and dressing much as he did right now, but standing in the midst of ancient Rome when it had still been shiny and relatively new. That version of Michael was juxtaposed with images of a tall, well-developed brunette who was wearing . . . not much at all just then, but what there was of her costume seemed to consist mainly of bits of black beading and fishnet. At one time, he felt he had known that dark-haired woman very well, though not as well as he’d have liked to. Something in him wanted to say “Mine!” when he saw that woman, but there was some barrier he couldn’t cross. 

Along with those pictures came other images, still apparently set in long-ago Rome, of a couple of blonde women: one, short and feisty and well-muscled (and almost as scantily-dressed as the brunette), inspiring in him about equal parts of annoyance and desire; the other, taller and softer-seeming in every way, usually dressed in flowing pink, and carrying that particular connotation of affection and intense irritation that screamed “family!” -- in spite of some memories of really inappropriate touching during that little Roman holiday. Of course, he also remembered the shorter blonde and the tall brunette draping themselves all over his naked (and apparently really well-muscled) torso, but that had only bothered him in a _good_ way. 

No sooner had he taken note of each of those figures -- and recalled some tactile memories to go with each of the women -- than his mind’s eye raced onward again, this time settling at what felt like the bottom of that particular hill of images. 

There, events seemed to be moving at normal speed, finally, and he found himself in open country, engaged in a life-and-death battle with someone. Strangely, it was almost as though the fear and helplessness he experienced as he was thrown a great distance through the air was a new sensation for him, a vulnerability and possibility of defeat that he’d never had to cope with before. He shook his head and tried to focus on who it was dishing out such an unaccustomed butt-kicking. There were four grotesque, costumed horsemen who seemed to come in for some of his feelings of hostility, but his fear and outrage were focused primarily on one other man, the one who commanded the horsemen.

He was wearing an ornate golden breastplate, sans wings, and what looked suspiciously like a long white dress, and he had inexplicably adopted Spike’s bleached blond and slicked-back hairstyle, but it was undeniably Michael who was his enemy in that long-ago battle. 

Angel’s eyes snapped open and his mind raced back to the present. Choosing his words carefully, he asked Michael, “Am I delusional, or did we first meet when you were trying to destroy the world?”

Michael smiled ruefully. “I was certainly trying to give that impression, at the time. It was a test for humanity, and the chance for a particular champion to demonstrate the best that humanity is capable of.”

Angel said slowly, reluctantly, “I remember fighting you then, but I wasn’t the champion, was I? You treated me as nothing but a brief distraction, easily brushed aside.”

Michael nodded in acknowledgment. “No, we didn’t consider you a ‘player’ – as I believe you would say – at all, yet. You surprised us by going against your own apparent nature and making common cause with your much-loathed half-brother and his friend. You may only have been doing it for much the same reason that Spike gave for siding with Buffy against you when you tried to awaken Acathla: because you liked having humans to toy with and didn’t want anyone else to trespass on what you considered your territory. But, no matter the reason, you did a good, selfless thing and kept your word for the duration of that crisis, helping your brother Hercules to fulfill his destiny. And from that moment, some of us began to think that you might one day amount to something worthwhile . . . IF you were given the right encouragement, Ares.” 

It would be overly dramatic to say that scales fell from his eyes at that moment, but hearing the name that he had formerly carried for centuries of heedless existence as the Greek god of war did make a number of puzzle pieces fall into place in Angel’s mind. 

One large piece seemed particularly significant. 

He was in some sort of earthquake-ravaged Grecian temple, which seemed to be in imminent danger of coming down on top of him – ‘Olympus,’ his inner voice supplied. The tall brunette was there. _Xena_. She was dressed in her favorite black leather and battling for her life against more of his former family members. His loyalties were torn as never before. He’d tried to trade his support in keeping herself and her daughter Eve safe from the other gods, in exchange for a promise that she’d have a child with him, grant him the human kind of immortality, just in case Eve really did cause the end of the Olympian gods. He’d repeated the offer many times, but Xena had always turned him down. Now, both her daughter and her best friend were dying from injuries his family had orchestrated. Only his sister Athena could grant the power to heal them, and since she was currently doing her best to kill Xena, that wasn’t likely to happen. With Eve slipping over the edge of death, Xena had lost her power to kill gods, and Athena was about to kill the woman he loved. He had only one thing left to trade, and without a hope in Tartarus that he’d get anything in return.

“Eve and Gabrielle . . . ,” Angel said, his voice unconsciously taking on some of Ares’ cadences. “I healed them, saved their lives at the cost of my godhood. All for the love of a woman I could never have, a woman who was working out her own redemption by battling everything I stood for.”

“Yup,” Michael said succinctly. “Ain’t love grand?”


	4. Dying is Easy; Comedy is Hard.

> _**Untwisting all the chains that tie  
>  The hidden soul of harmony.**  
>  John Milton, L’Allegro. Line 143._

**Meanwhile, elsewhere in that pocket of reality . . .**

Spike was **not** having a good night.

He had been fully prepared to follow Angel’s lead (though he’d never give the Great Poof the satisfaction of admitting that . . . EVER) and go out in a blaze of glory. Or at least in a blaze of magnificent futility, of the ‘poke-the-Titan-with-a-stick-until-he-stomps-you-into-jelly’ variety. Either way, it was action – something to do – and a kind of resolution to all his questions, all his doubts. Dusted vamps didn’t have moral qualms, didn’t worry about making fools of themselves or proving worthy of anything, or anyone. 

He wasn’t looking forward to having his soul end up in hell, as Angel was sure it would, but the old killjoy had been wrong enough times in the century-plus they’d known each other that Spike could still summon up some optimism, could hope that Angel was wrong now. And, either way, there would be no more point in worrying about it after tonight.

At least, that had been the plan. 

But instead of battling his way to oblivion, damnation, or eternal sweetness and light, he was sitting in this storeroom, playing nursemaid to a gravely wounded Charles Gunn, and missing out on what sounded like some first-rate crash-and-bash outside. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he kept getting the intense feeling that he ought to be somewhere else right now. The feeling that he wasn’t where he _belonged_ , and hadn’t been for some time. Worst of all, since his makeshift bandage seemed to be keeping Gunn in relatively stable condition, Spike was left with way too much time to think.

And the more he thought, the weirder things got. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume somebody had spiked his last batch of otter blood. Tonight’s visions were making his Woodstock experience seem tame and rational by comparison.

For instance, he kept getting flashes of memories that couldn’t possibly be his. He knew that they couldn’t be his, because he was fairly certain that he’d never had wings. Or breasts. Yet, he distinctly remembered engaging in some kind of freaky mid-air battle alongside Angel’s feathered playmate out there: he’d been flying under his own power at the time, and he was wielding his sword with slightly different motions than usual, because his upper body was built a little differently. Curiouser and curiouser.

Thinking about Angel’s playmate for even two seconds brought up some even more disturbing images. 

He was part of something that looked and felt intriguingly like a good, old-fashioned bacchanal, and at times he seemed to be making out with a hot young guy – well, not that HE found the guy ‘hot’, necessarily, but the woman whose memories he was reliving had certainly thought so at one time.

Oh, now this was more like it: the hot guy was forgotten, and he was engaged in a languorous, sultry dance with a tall dark-haired woman in a tight black dress. She actually kind of reminded him of Dru, except for the intense focus and sanity in her eyes. And yes, he was apparently her girlfriend, from the way they were caressing each other. He didn’t mind this part of his visions much at all. If he had to have hallucinations about being a woman, he’d much prefer to hallucinate about being a lesbian with a knock-down-drag-out gorgeous girlfriend.. 

Dozens of images of intertwined bodies later, and suddenly some winged party-crashers were making an unwelcome appearance, spoiling everybody’s fun. It never failed. The tall brunette was fighting the big winged guy and his second-in-command – apparently fighting them to a standstill, which was even more impressive since she was doing it in stiletto-heeled thigh-high boots and that same tight dress. The lady just looked . . . right with that big sword in her hand. And it felt right for him to be at her side, whether she was kicking ass or just kicking back and making nice.

He wondered, for a moment, if this was anything like what B . . . like what the Slayers experienced when they had those weird, prophetic dreams, or when they were newly Called and dreamt of those who’d fought and died before them. But then he was distracted by flashes of more memories of the girlfriend-who-wasn’t-his and the life-he’d-never-lived. 

These culminated with the sight of his dark-haired gal-pal once again battling Angel’s feathered friend. She seemed well on her way to drowning the big guy in a Roman bath, and was deriving great satisfaction from that deed. It was obviously too good to be true: a woman who shared his delight in the simple pleasure of mayhem . . . in a good cause, of course, because, Hello! Soul-having, now. 

Oops, he was right: definitely too good to be true, or to last. Some busybody killjoy of a Higher Power had intervened in the nick of time, and his not-a-girlfriend was seriously knocked for a loop by an over-the-top light show, while Mr. Winged Wonder got to yuck it up at her expense, before fading out of sight. 

Before he could explode with outrage at this interference, Spike found himself back in the present, in the storeroom, shaking his head hard enough to snap a normal human’s neck in his efforts to clear his mind of those conflicting and unsettling images – images which, he reminded himself, had absolutely no business being there in the first place, because he had enough disturbing memories of his very own without importing other people’s nightmares or drug-induced fantasies.

Remaining where he was, seated beside the worktable he’d turned into a poor excuse for a hospital bed, he reached over to check the status of Gunn’s wound, yet again. The sickly green pseudo-bandage was still doing its part to keep Charlie’s insides from becoming his outsides, but Spike didn’t think Gunn’s breathing sounded right, and he suspected that having a tight, rock-hard substance pressing down on the side of his abdomen might not be helping much. Still, Gunn’s heartbeat was steadier than it had been, so maybe the trade-off of breathing room for reduced blood loss was worth it. Gunn was starting to sound and smell more appetizing – strike that! _‘Healthy’_ , Spike reminded himself, no longer meant the same as _‘tasty.’_ To help take his mind off the subject of food while Gunn was all too vulnerable, Spike decided to continue his earlier, one-sided conversation with the unconscious man.

“So, what d’you think, Charlie? After a couple of hours on the weird dreams Tilt-a-whirl, I’ve got at least three separate memories featuring our high-flying general out there, and only in the first one does he feel at all trustworthy. Should I warn Angel not to turn his back on the geezer? On the other hand, those two seemed to be getting on like a house afire last time I checked, and what could I tell him, anyway? That I remember being a short blonde bird who had some trouble with the bloke back when the Roman aqueducts were the latest thing? Oh, Angel would _love_ that.

“No, you’re right, Charlie. Best to keep this just between you and me, for now. Still . . . It’s gotten awfully quiet out there. Time for me to take a peek, do a little reconnaissance, maybe.” Spike rose from his chair and was halfway to the door before he thought to tell Gunn, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back with help as soon as I can.” It was a very long shot that Gunn could hear him or was even aware of his presence, but just in case, Spike found that tonight, at least, he didn’t want to be rude to the man. 

“I wonder if senility is catching?” Spike muttered to himself as he carefully shut the door to the storeroom, trying to hide the very broken lock. “It’d be just like old Gramps to try to share his mental breakdown, if he could.”

* * *


	5. 'Apokalypsis', or Dropping the Veils

> _**Servant of God, well done; well hast thou fought  
>  The better fight.**   
> John Milton, Paradise Lost. Book vi. Line 29._

**Meanwhile, back in Angel's corner of reality . . .**

Angel felt as though he was teetering on the brink of an abyss of hopelessness, now that most of his Ares memories had been restored. It had taken him the better part of the twentieth century to begin to get past the guilt and despair in his soul over his crimes as Angelus, and this was much worse, in a way. Ares might never have delighted in the extended torture and destruction of individual human beings in the intimate way that Angelus had, but centuries of being a god of war had made him directly and indirectly responsible for a body-count that even Angelus couldn't have imagined. When it came to causing human misery and horror, Angelus was an old-fashioned artisan, creating his hand-crafted, one-off "masterpieces" of terror and death, while Ares had been an industrialist in comparison, capable of mass-production. 

Angel swayed and had to lean against the nearest wall to keep from physically collapsing, though from somewhere deep inside he felt compelled to snark at the archangel. "If I didn’t already know I was damned _before_ , then I might be really upset right now. I never had a chance for redemption, did I?"

Michael was looking at him quizzically, as though Angel was some species of creature that the archangel had never seen before. "Cordelia really wasn't kidding about you and your talent for Olympic gold medal brooding, was she?" he remarked.

The archangel's comment achieved its desired effect. Angel was momentarily distracted from contemplation of his own wretched misdeeds.

"Cordelia? You've seen her, talked to her? Is she alright?"

Michael smiled, but his eyes glittered with mockery as he answered, "She's a non-corporeal, supposedly spiritually enlightened, eternal pain in the butt. So yes, by your standards, she’s alright . . . .” 

Angel felt a twinge of relief at hearing that Cordy was still so very much herself. Perhaps he no longer needed to count Cordelia Chase, at least, among those he’d failed to save or whose deaths he’d caused. 

Again, the archangel’s eyes seem to indicate that he could clearly hear and see the thoughts going through Angel’s head as he continued, “. . . And she's still watching out for you and yours, even though she's not supposed to, in case you were wondering. You might want to remember that – and a few other things – the next time you feel tempted to throw yourself headlong into the pools of hellfire you think you so richly deserve." 

Angel stiffened in resentment at Michael's scoffing tone. He might sometimes tolerate that sort of mockery of his character and beliefs from Spike, but Spike was . . . well, _Spike_ : an idiot whose supposed ‘insights’ could be easily dismissed. To hear that same irreverence for his century of guilt and grief coming from a supposedly higher being was intolerable. Especially now that he knew how much more guilt his soul had to carry.

Angel lashed out: "This is all just a game to you, isn't it? Human life? My life . . . or un-life, anyway? You just sit around up there, wherever you come from, and don't give a rat's ass about any of us here on earth. War, suffering, death, and despair -- it's all just a Saturday matinee to you, is that it? Buffy, the Slayers, me, Connor, Cordelia, Wesley, Gunn, Fred . . . hell, even SPIKE: we’re all nothing more than toys for you to toss around!"

"Ah, self-righteous anger!" Michael exclaimed. "That's an improvement over despair, at least. At the risk of swelling your formerly mortal ego too much, weren’t you the guy who once gave his son the ‘doesn’t matter what we’ve suffered or where we came from’ speech?”

As if the archangel’s words were a command, Angel found himself mentally reliving that first confrontation with Connor after Wesley had rescued him from months of starving on the bottom of the ocean. He’d still been pretty light-headed and borderline delusional at the time, but he dimly recalled telling his son, _“Nothing in the world is the way it ought to be. It’s harsh, and cruel, but that’s why there’s us: Champions. Doesn’t matter where we come from, what we’ve done, or suffered, or even if we make a difference. We live as though the world were as it should be, to show it what it can be . . .”_

Angel shifted uncomfortably. “You know, I may not have been entirely in my right mind, yet, when I said that, what with the starving . . . ." He trailed off, sounding whiny even to his own ears. Something about this current bubble of space-time seemed to resist attempts at self-deception. 

Michael’s smile almost reached his eyes this time, as he replied, “I’m sorry, but if you’re going to be childish about this, Angel, then you should know that I called ‘no take-backs’ before. So I guess you’re stuck with those words and the commitment they represent. Like it or not, you’re a Champion . . . when you choose to put your body and mind where your mouth used to be.”

“But . . . !” Angel knew there was something wrong with the archangel’s attitude and argument, somewhere, if only he could put his finger on it. He briefly wondered when it was that he’d lost his brooding momentum in this conversation. “But . . . now that I know the full extent of what I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt not only in these past few centuries but back when I was still Ares, how can I ever make up for it -- for any of it? How can my soul ever be anything but damned? What am I supposed to do with the rest of my immortality, since I didn’t wind up a pile of dust tonight as I was supposed to?”

“’Supposed to’?” Michael quirked an eyebrow at that last bit. “I hate to break it to you, Angel, but that’s not really for you to decide. Your will is as free as anyone else’s to decide where you go and what you do and how you’ll love, and you’re as free as anyone else to make good or bad choices. But destiny and damnation? No, THAT you don’t get to decide for yourself. It’s simply not your business.”

Angel opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it, realizing that -- though he thought he’d learned a lot and figured out quite a few things about heaven and hell over the course of his existence -- he might be getting way out of his depth, now. 

Michael took advantage of Angel’s momentary speechlessness and pressed his advantage: “This might be hard for you to accept, **_Liam_** , but your father’s opinions and God’s opinions aren’t necessarily one and the same. That fellow Freud was mistaken about a lot of things – and yes, I told him so, personally, when his soul returned to us that time and he was in no position to argue – but some of what he said about fathers and sons and your mortal ideas about God were right on the money, from what I’ve observed. 

“I can accept the possibility that, on some level, your soul remembers a time when your father Zeus really WAS the supreme deity, as far as you or anyone else you knew was concerned. But in your current incarnation? Not so much!” 

Michael paused to take an unneeded breath, giving his words a second to sink in before bringing out what might be his ‘big gun’ against the champion’s stubbornness. 

"I know you may have a couple of millennia worth of father-issues to work out here, since you never got much in the way of approval or encouragement from any of the fathers you’ve had in any of your incarnations. But try not to let that slop over into other aspects of existence and blind you to better possibilities, will you? Or in other words, and this is a direct quote from Cordelia, ‘GET. OVER. IT.’”

Angel’s lips twisted into an expression of mockery as he said, “What? You mean heaven’s started grading on the curve, suddenly? You mean all those lives I destroyed, all the suffering and misery I caused -- they don’t really matter in heaven’s eyes, as long as I’m willing to be a good little soldier now? Are you telling me that mass-murder and unspeakable tortures really CAN be wiped out by a certain number of heroic saves?”

Michael refused to take the bait. Angel had been trying to provoke him, to distract him from a topic more painful, somehow, than the prospect of his own eternal damnation. But Michael had seen it all before, over the many millennia of his existence, and he’d been tired of this particular drama back when the pyramids were new. No matter how screwed up a parent-child relationship might be, there were children who’d prefer to believe any number of horrible things about themselves and their ability to be loved or forgiven, rather than admit that Mommy or Daddy might have been WRONG about something that important. 

Though Michael was never anything but pleased about having been created as an angel, it was times like these that made him give even more profound thanks that he’d never had parents as the mortal world knew them, and so wasn't tempted to spend the rest of Eternity obsessing over them or blaming them for his non-existent (he _was_ an archangel, after all) flaws. 

Naturally, he reflected, Angel would prefer to pick a fight with an immensely powerful archangel who could (in all modesty) swat him like a fly, rather than allow this uncomfortable conversation to proceed. But Michael wasn’t falling for it. 

He was, however, starting to run out of patience (which had never been his strongest trait at the best of times). There was a reason why they usually sent someone _else_ to do the more 'touchy-feely', non-fatal mortal interventions. Michael had always been far better suited to changing minds through changing someone's anatomy with a really big sword than to trying the non-violent, soft-sell approach. They had specialists for that. Unfortunately, this assignment called for both sword-wielding _and_ counseling, and the Boss had decided that Michael could jolly well do the talking, as long as he was here for the hacking and cleaving. 

Now, he was actually feeling _tired_. He hadn’t fought this hard in centuries, perhaps not even once in the millennia since he'd battled Xena for control of heaven, and though he was created before the dawn of time to relish warring against evil, he knew he’d . . . what was that human expression again? . . . Ah, yes, he’d ‘feel it in the morning.’ The archangel’s tolerance for Angel’s self-flagellation was about used up, for now, and there were things that needed to be said before Michael could restore this pocket of reality to normal space-time and return with his comrades to heaven for some much-needed R &R (Rest and Re-inspiration). 

Messed up or not, Angel would just have to ‘suck it up’ and listen, this once. 

Besides, apart from the whole 'greater good' issue, Michael had made a bet about Angel with the soul that had once been Sigmund Freud, and when archangels stooped to wagering of any kind, they really hated to lose.

“No, you’re right about one thing, at least,” Michael continued, trying not to let his sardonic tendencies become _too_ overbearing. “Heaven doesn’t grade on a curve, Angel. But we DO give extra points for _courage_ , especially the courage to keep on doing good in the absence of any hope of success or gain, or even hope of salvation. When you mortals – and ex-mortals, and even ex-immortals – transcend your own limitations out of genuine love for others, we . . . Well, let’s just say we take notice. Of course, so do those on the other side, and they go to some lengths to make the cost of courage so high that no-one will ever want to pay it twice. 

“But you’ve figured that part out for yourself, haven’t you, . . . Spike?”

* * *


	6. Working Out Your Own Salvation

> _**I was all ear,  
>  And took in strains that might create a soul  
> Under the ribs of death.**   
> John Milton, Comus. Line 560._

**Still in Angel's corner of reality, but a few minutes earlier . . .**

When he finally managed to track down Angel’s scent in the midst of the many competing and even less appealing odors of recently dead demons and burning dumpsters, Spike found his annoying grand-sire deep in conversation with the very same winged interloper that he’d half-intended to warn Angel against, when he'd left the storeroom. Now, it didn't look as though any warning would be necessary. 

In fact, Spike seemed to have completely missed out on the rest of the violence, just as he'd feared, and if Angel had already started on the post-battle, 'I'm-so-noble-and-I've-got-to-talk-about-it' speech-making phase, then William the Formerly Bloody would just as soon give it a miss. Neither Angel nor the real deal in the fancy silver breastplate had looked in his direction yet, so Spike figured he might be able to toddle off, without having to exchange what passed for pleasantries between him and Angel.

Maybe he should try to find Blue, instead? If the great ponce had survived the battle, surely she had, as well, and if there was any one left to fight, anywhere, Spike knew that Illyria would be in the thick of it.

No, Illyria could wait. Gunn’s survival was still uncertain, and he’d as good as promised Charlie-boy that he’d be coming back with help. In this current state of reality, the fact that Gunn had technically been unconscious and unable to hear Spike’s promise didn’t seem to matter at all. 

His word had to be made good . . . even if it meant asking that winged advertisement for “What Not to Wear” to help them get back to the human world and human medical care. Bugger! Spike’s less than flattering thoughts about the archangel didn’t stop him from stepping forward, however. 

After all, it’s what _she_ would want him to do. 

And no, at this moment he wasn’t sure which ‘she’ he meant: Buffy, or that dark-haired warrior woman in the black leather, whom he somehow remembered loving with all his soul. Maybe he meant both of them? 

Spike shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it of more of those disturbing memories that couldn’t possibly have been his, because they obviously belonged to that blonde with the bare midriff and the twin swords. Pity, though.

 _Stop it!_ Spike told himself. _Focus on the here and now, William, wherever and whenever this is. Get help for Gunn first. Fantasize about Buffy in black leather later._

Wait? What was it the real angel was saying to the ponce? Something about going beyond your limitations for the sake of love, and how that stirs up notice in the higher realms as well as in the lower ones. 

“... they go to some lengths to make the cost of courage so high that no-one will ever want to pay it twice. 

“But you’ve figured that part out for yourself, haven’t you, . . . Spike? Or would you prefer to go by ‘Gabrielle’ again?” 

_Gabrielle_. Yes, that’s who he used to be. How could he have forgotten? Somehow, that confirmation filled Spike with a sense of peace, instead of the horror or denial he’d been trying to drum up earlier.

Of course, it helped that hearing the name “Gabrielle” applied to himself seemed to have sent Angel into some kind of seizure, disgust warring with too many other emotions for his face to settle on any expression. Causing Angel to have an apoplexy just never got old – not even in this little pocket of heaven, Spike realized. 

“We may have to give Ares, here, a moment to adjust,” the archangel remarked.

And suddenly Spike wasn’t too sure that his own face wouldn’t stay stuck like that, as all the rest of the pieces of his first incarnation fell into place, one after another . . . including the realization that if Angel was Ares, then the soul of Buffy Summers could have come from only one source. 

_Xena! She’s here, on this earth! I know where I’m supposed to be, finally._ It was that simple. 

Or not. After all, Gabrielle was a hero, and heroes don’t let their friends bleed to death because they got distracted. _The joys of being a bloody white hat, eh?_

“Fun as this little trip down ‘Memory Lane, B.C.’ might be,” Spike said with a sidelong glance at Angel, whose face was slowly regaining its natural lack of color, “Gunn is in urgent need of a hospital. I don’t suppose you could help us with that, could you, Michael? Like, now? Unless you’d like to break out a little miracle, and just heal him, ‘cause that would also work for me.”

“You always were pretty single-minded in defense of your friends,” Michael observed. “But no miracle should be necessary, this time around: no restored soul, no escape from hell, no impossible birth – not even a snowfall in Southern California. My colleagues and I will be returning home, now, and as soon as we depart this pocket of reality will return to normal. The ambulances have already been dispatched, and they should be able to get Gunn to the help he needs.”

Michael turned to exchange a private word with Angel, but then couldn’t resist adding, “Don’t worry – given all the strange sights in this part of L.A. right now, I don’t think the medical personnel will even blink at that wound dressing you made from Fyarl mucus.”

Spike/Gabrielle shrugged and headed back to Gunn, intent on flagging down help as soon as it arrived. In any incarnation, he/she found Michael’s sense of humor somewhat obscure on the rare occasions when it showed. 

_I guess that’s Angels for you,_ Spike reflected. _Even the real ones probably wouldn’t recognize ‘funny’ if it hit them over the head, much less former war gods turned sick-o vampires turned brooding menaces who happened to share the name._

* * *

**Meanwhile, back on Angel's side of the alley . . .**

“You know, I think Gabrielle can be a little obnoxious in this incarnation,” Michael told Angel, who managed to refrain from replying, “Duh!” only through what he thought of as a Herculean act of self-restraint. 

_Oh, right: ‘Herculean’. Ha-ha. Speaking of obnoxious family members . . . . No, don’t go there,_ Angel/Ares told himself. _This night’s already been disturbing enough._

“I’ll take my leave now, Angel,” Michael said with a smile that struck Angel as slightly unsettling, under the circumstances. “Don’t forget your friend Cordelia’s, uh, ‘words of wisdom’ once I’m gone. The conscious memories of your past incarnations will fade away pretty quickly, after you return to normal space-time, but you should be able to remember everything else, including most of our conversation about redemptive acts of courage and love.”

Angel was tempted to protest the loss of his Ares memories (they were part of him, after all, and what right did the Powers have to take them away again?), but quickly thought better of it. As Angel, he didn’t need any more bloodbaths to brood over. 

Maybe it was time to let a _lot_ of his past go, come to think of it. Not that he would forget all those lives he’d destroyed as Angelus, but perhaps after this he’d try to spend more time and effort helping his surviving friends re-build their lives, and less of it obsessing over things he couldn’t change. 

“I’ll . . . think about it,” he told the archangel.

Michael’s smile became even wider. “You might be qualified to brood for Ireland in the next Olympic games, Angel, but at least you do _think_ – something you rarely did as Ares, if that’s any comfort.”

“Not really, but thanks . . . I guess,” Angel replied.

Almost before the last word was out of his mouth, Michael disappeared from his sight as suddenly as the archangel and his friends had first appeared. Looking around, Angel realized that all the other armed representatives of the heavenly host had also departed at some point. Then his sensitive vampire hearing picked up the sound of traffic from nearby streets, something that had been absent while the battle was being fought. 

Things were back to normal. Well, normal for L.A., that is.

Angel had the feeling that there was something he really needed to remember – maybe something the archangel had said to Spike just a few minutes ago? No, what would an archangel have to say to that bleached thorn in his side and part-time idiot? Oh, well. It would come back to him in time, whatever it was.

In the meantime, he had friends to find, people to take care of. That was the most important thing, after all.

Angel didn’t know exactly why, but somehow his soul felt lighter than it had done at any time in the past century. No danger of perfect happiness, of course – especially not with Spike anywhere in the same hemisphere – but he did feel almost . . . hopeful. 

Huh.


	7. A Little Apocalypse, Now and Then (or, "Story Teller, Revisited")

> _**Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth  
>  Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.**  
>  John Milton, Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 677._

**Somewhere nearby, a little later . . .**

Andrew Wells, self-styled Watcher Extraordinaire and Trusted Confidante of the ‘Slayers of Vampyres’, crept out of his hiding place behind some flattened cardboard boxes in the fenced-off dead end of an alley. 

It had been several hours since the last of the strange and terrifying people with wings (angels are as real as demons? Did everybody else know that and just forgot to mention it?) and the hordes of truly horrifying demons briefly loosed upon the earth had vanished from his alley and the sounds of the city had returned to normal, but his hands were still trembling.

Buffy had been very upset with him, when she found out that he hadn’t told her the whole truth about his trip to L.A. to retrieve Dana, the emotionally damaged slayer, and had entirely neglected to mention the visit of Angel _and_ Spike to Rome. When the Council’s seers had started having visions of Angel and Spike and a few others facing an overwhelming army of hell-spawn, that cat had finally come out of the bag. It also seemed that his estimation of which side Angel was really on had been in error.

While Buffy was trying to put together a team of slayers to save Angel’s bacon (or, more likely, to beat back the rest of the demons and help clean up the greasy stain that would be the only thing left of Angel and the beautifully chiseled Spike by the time they arrived), Andrew had decided to come ahead. He had been hoping to redeem himself at least a little bit in the eyes of Buffy and Dawn by reaching Angel and Spike before the battle was irrevocably underway, letting them know that they’d have super-powered reinforcements if they could just put off their mini-apocalypse for a day or two.

Unfortunately, Andrew didn’t have the magical skills or power necessary to teleport himself from Italy to California, and he was slightly out of pocket due to a recent, unexpected auction of incredibly rare _Star Trek_ memorabilia. So, he could only afford to fly stand-by, and he’d arrived too late to give warning yet early enough to be within the sphere of battle when the area around the Hyperion hotel was suddenly cut off from everywhere else. To Andrew, it seemed as though he'd been sealed off by something like that negative zone barrier that had trapped the Inhumans in _Fantastic Four_ #48 (or was it 45? He was too scared to even remember which issue it was, at that point).

Andrew wasn’t really a fighter, even though he’d tried his best in the final battle of Sunnydale, so there was nothing he could do to help, it seemed. He couldn’t even help Angel’s friend who arrived on the scene already bleeding, because by the time he realized that Gunn was injured an army of demons was charging into the space between them.

Andrew was about to scream and try to burrow even deeper into his hiding place when he realized that there was also an army of angels on the scene, hovering just above his line of sight. And these winged avengers (or was vengeance a sin? Could you call angels – even warrior angels – ‘avengers’ and not get smote, especially if they were really nearby at the time?) were carrying wicked-looking (no, _cool_ -looking, he corrected himself, ever ready to edit where necessary) weapons. It was scary as ‘heck’, still, but at least there was now a chance he might survive. 

And the others, too, of course – they might survive, as well. He really was worried about Angel and his friends, he reminded himself, even if _some_ people didn’t think so.

He would have come out of hiding after the fighting was done, he really would have, except then a bunch of freaky visions had started appearing in his head. He’d been mesmerized, and slightly appalled at times, by what he’d seen – he remembered that much – but what he couldn’t remember now was what he’d seen that had inspired those emotional reactions.

Andrew got to his feet, finally, and decided that it was time to find Angel and the others, and perhaps at last he could offer some assistance in first aid, or at least boil water or something. He headed towards what seemed to be the back door of the Hyperion, hoping that he’d be able to make peace with Angel’s people, or the ones that had survived, so they might speak well of him to Buffy when she and her cavalry of over-caffeinated slayers finally got there.

As he walked, Andrew found himself singing under his breath. It was a catchy tune, but he couldn’t recall where he’d heard it before or how he’d thought up his own lyrics so quickly:

> _“Andrew the Mighty,_  
>  He’s very bright. He  
>  Knows all the Watcher lore,  
>  And tells it with a lot of gore.  
>  Cherubim and Seraphim  
>  Tremble at the sound of him.  
>  He’s every Slayer’s true friend,  
>  He’s every Vampyre’s bitter end—  
>  Except for those whose souls attend!  
>  He’s Andrew –  
>  I’m Andrew the Mighty!” 

_I have to work on that rhyme scheme,_ Andrew thought to himself before starting the second verse that sprang so effortlessly to his agile brain. _After all, I don’t want to accidentally summon more flying monkeys whenever I sing my new theme song._

* * *

[The original lyrics to the song “Joxer the Mighty” from _Xena: Warrior Princess_ are available [here](http://www.whoosh.org/faq/faq31.html#DTITLE1)]


End file.
